


Caged Birds Don’t Sing

by deepestfathoms



Category: Six - Marlow/Moss
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Discrimination, Friendship, Gen, Loss of Limbs, Monster As Family, Monster Fluff, Monsters, Phantom pain, Trauma, Violence, just keep that in mind, that should be a tag, the character Bee is NOT an OC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:00:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21880027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepestfathoms/pseuds/deepestfathoms
Summary: Getting one wing ripped off is worse than two getting ripped off.
Kudos: 15





	Caged Birds Don’t Sing

**Author's Note:**

> Wings  
> Aragon- Golden pheasant  
> Anne- Northern lapwing  
> Jane- Harpy eagle   
> Cleves- Red-winged blackbird   
> Katherine- Violet-backed starling   
> Parr- Barn owl   
> Bessie- Black-throated gray warbler   
> Maria- Kookaburra   
> Maggie- Egyptian goose   
> Joan- Snowy owl

Sometimes bad things just happen to good people. Sometimes fate just has other plans for someone. In Bessie’s case, that was very much true. 

Elizabeth “Bessie” Blount had been missing for a year and a half. She was remembered for her sardonic, but soft demeanor and skillful talent at playing the bass, since she had been apart of the band for the musical Six. All of the cast knew her, which is why her disappearance hit them so hard.

By now, mostly everyone has moved on.

The funeral was an open casket with just photos and one of her basses inside. It was hard to look at, painful even. The idea that she was still alive, since her body was never found, came about, but it has been dropped for awhile.

Bessie became a mere memory in the back of the cast’s mind.

It’s November, now. Fall was coming into full bloom. It was Anne’s idea to go to the park on their day off, and everyone obliged, knowing that the trip would be a good chance to stretch their wings. Joan branched off from them to venture further into the forest, since she preferred the silence rather than the ruckus the cousins and Maggie were making. She spread her dappled white snowy owl wings and breathed out a sigh of bliss. This always felt amazing. It was like rolling around in molten gold.

Rustling snapped her out of her trance. Deer jumped out of the underbrush and rushed right past Joan, causing her to jump away and fall on her back. Her wings thrust outwards in surprise and she laughed a little before realizing the odd behavior of the animals. Deer normally didn’t run towards a person.

They ran away.

Joan pushed herself up and brushed herself off, ruffling out her feathers to rid them of any dirt. She was still pondering why the deer were acting so weirdly when she heard it.

The squeaking.

Curious and concerned, she tiptoed forward and peeked through the brush. There, only a few feet away, was a doe lying in a pool of its own blood. Its stomach was ripped open, but it was still alive, like whatever had killed it wasn’t interested in eating at the moment. The sight made Joan’s veins turn icy in fear.

What did this?

When she found out, she wished she had just ran off with the rest of the herd.

Growling came to the left. A tall, bulky creature emerged from its hiding spot in the trees, perching on a branch with long, curved talons. It had molted grey skin and bug-like eyes. Multiple rows of teeth poked out of its maw, dripping with some kind of creamy fluid. The barb at the end of its tail was just as menacing as its seven-inch claws. When it noticed Joan, it exhales a low hissing breath.

WingEaters. A avian’s natural enemy. From the name, these monsters eat a person’s wings to gain some of their own. They were ruthless, bloodthirsty predators that stop at nothing to feed.

Joan flung her wings open but it was too late; the monster was upon her. There’s a terrible pain- everything goes black when she hits that tree.

Joan wakes up on the ground.

No. Wait. Waking up implied she was in a bed, at home, safe.

Joan came to.

She’s lying face-down on the ground, mouth full of dirt. There’s a metallic tang on her tongue- she’s frothing red at the lips.

Joan lifts her head up and coughs out gritty clots of scarlet. She sees the WingEater hunched over a few feet away, distracted by something. This was her only chance to get away so she crawls. She crawls until she could finally force herself to stand up and run.

She staggered back towards the park. Someone screams. Multiple people scream. Jane is covering her mouth in shock- but why? Anne is shielding Katherine’s eyes, Parr has backed herself up into Aragon’s arms, Maggie looks like she’s about to faint…

Joan’s knees are wobbling and her vision keeps blurring with a blizzard of white. She can’t focus on anything. She attempted to speak, to ask what was wrong, but only blood floods out. Deliriously, she dabs her fingertips against her lips and stare in bewilderment when they came back red, like she was just now noticing her body violently ejecting its own fluids. Out of the corner of her eye she notices Anna, maybe Maria, sprint somewhere- where was she going?

Joan couldn’t follow, couldn’t ask what was going on. Her legs give out. She drops into a pool of her own blood.

It wasn’t the deer that WingEater was eating.

———

The Flightless. That’s what people who have lost their ability to fly are called. That’s what Joan is now sorted into.

The doctors spent six hours trying to stabilize Joan. Eventually, they got the bleeding to stop- it was a lot of blood for one body- and stitched up the gash, but nothing could bring back the wing that was ripped off.

Joan would never fly again.

When she woke up, she cried. Joan shivered and sobbed and had bad panic attacks. The anguish was blinding- the pain was worse. Even with the antibiotics, she was overwhelmed by white hot agony that seared up through her back, ripping her apart from the inside out.

Her world was crashing down.

She hadn’t realized the damage at first. She was in a severe state of shock when she came hobbling into the park, clothing drenched in her own blood. People who had witnessed it said she looked extremely dazed and completely out-of-it, unaware of the gore she was soaked in, unaware that her back was spitting like a spigot. She just kept asking herself why. Why her? Why did this have to happen to her? What did she ever do?

When she was released from the hospital, Joan went home and lied in her bed for six Joan. For six days she suffered. She didn’t eat, barely drank anything. Maria or Maggie had to basically force just about everything down her throat.

Her wingmates…

Joan doesn’t know what she would have done without them. Probably would have dehydrated herself. Their care was nice, even on that one horrid night.

Maria wasn’t too sure what woke her up exactly. A gut feeling, perhaps? All she knew is that something made her get out of bed and walk into the hallway. Light was seeping in from the bathroom. Inside, Joan was on her hands and knees, panting heavily, clutching fistfuls of the shaggy shower carpet. Her shirt was discarded in the sink, revealing her milky-yellow, sweat-soaked flesh and the ugly scar on her back. She didn’t look to be comfortable in the slightest, as her muscles were contracting violently and her bra strap appeared to be digging into taut her skin. Not that she had the energy to wrestle with the clasp right now, though.

“Joan?” Maria called out, standing in the doorway.

She saw the fledgling’s entire body tense up. Joan is trying not to move but she’s trembling too badly.

“Honey?” Maria tried again, “You okay? What’s wrong?”

She wasn’t okay. Of course she wasn’t okay- what kind of question was that?

Maria slowly walked over and knelt down, setting a hand on the small of the owl’s back. She could feel her shivering, along with her spasming muscles underneath her damp skin. The touch caused Joan to jump a little, but she didn’t scamper away. Maria thinks she doesn’t have the energy to.

“How long have you been like this?” Maria asked. She’s making an effort not to look in the toilet, as she’s sure her bandmate has already exhausted herself by emptying her stomach into it.

“I….ah…hours?” Joan meekly replied with slurred words. Her voice was weak and hoarse.

Hours? Guilt pools in the back of Maria’s throat.

Joan lifts her head and shudders. A painful spasm ripped through her remaining wing and her response to it was by slamming her forehead into the toilet seat. Maria’s heart clenched a little when she realized she was probably trying to knock herself out.

…Did it really hurt that much?

“Sweetheart, don’t do that,” The drummer chided softly, slipping her hand down to lift Joan’s head up. The answer she got was an incoherent mumble that morphed into a tight whimper.

“M-Mari-”

“It’s alright. Just get it out of your system. I’m going to go wake up-”

Joan grabbed Maria by the wrist, holding on with a death grip. She didn’t look at her, too humiliated to make eye contact, but still refused to be alone like this. Thank God the woman understood so she didn’t have to pathetically mewl it out loud.

“Okay. I’m staying. I won’t go anywhere.”

Joan wanted to thank her, she really did, but bile rose up in her throat and she gathered enough energy to push herself up to avoid vomiting all over herself.

Maria holds her hair out of the way, rubbing her hand gently across the top of her back. Her fingers trail down and pushed up the clasp of Joan’s bra to look at the gash it was pressing into.

“Ho, Jesus, sweetie, this- I can see why you’re in here.”

No wonder Joan decided to take off her shirt. The edges looked raw from the material constantly rubbing against it, practically glowing neon pink. Dried blood and pus crusted over the stitches, which were straining to simply hold the wound together. Her back had become a labyrinth of purple and yellow- the pain she must have been in was unfathomable.

“Shouldn’t this be wrapped up? Did the doctor not bandage it? I swear to god I’m going to shove a broomstick so far up his-”

Joan’s small whimper halted Maria and she shut her mouth.

“No, he- I- ” She coughed and then wheezed.

“Don’t speak.” Maria shushed her gently, “We’ll worry about that later. For now- I’m going to try and clean this, okay, honey? It might be a little more comfortable.”

Joan doesn’t have the energy to resist. Simply being a foot away from her wingmate right now was disagreeable, so she was just happy to be around someone, even in these circumstances.

She finally looked up when Maria grabbed some things from the cabinets. There was deep shame in her eyes. She immediately pressed against the drummer when she knelt down again.

“Here, try lying down, okay? Just get comfortable.”

Joan obliged hesitantly and lays down with her burning forehead against Maria’s lap. She folds her wing around her bare arms, trying to get warmer.

“This is going to sting a little.”

Joan wasn’t expecting antiseptic. Her spine arched and she howled at the burning sensation.

Pressing down harder, Maria uses her other hand to brush back the fledgling’s bangs, hoping to help soothe her. When she lifts the towel, its covered in a thin film that’s the color of rust. Joan whimpers into her folded thighs, curling up like an injured cat.

Suddenly, manic footsteps stomp loudly down the hallway and the bathroom door is nearly thrown off its hinges. Maggie stands there in her pajamas, feathers ruffled, holding a lamp she must have yanked out of the wall socket. It got the tiniest laugh out of Joan, which unfortunately turned to a cough.

“I heard a scream.” Maggie said, lowering her weapon.

“People do that,” Maria chuckled lightly, “I’m just helping Joan wash off her back. The alcohol stung a little.”

The guitarist nodded.

“Do you need any help?”

“Can you get a glass of water and the antibiotics from downstairs?”

“Yeah, of course.” Maggie hurried back down the hallway with a flap of her Egyptian goose wings.

Maria looked back down at her wingmate- her _little sister_ \- and slowly embraced her. In the midst of all the mayhem and pain, the two of them share a quiet moment.

———

Joan recovered, but she didn’t get better. Not psychologically. That’s why her new psychiatrist prescribed her antidepressants. She didn’t think they worked.

Still, she eventually forced herself to get up. Even when it felt like someone had just ripped out her spine and proceeded to beat her into a pulp with it, she hauled her body off to work.

Without her other wing, though, her balance was completely thrown off. She stumbled around like a giraffe with broken legs, unable to stay upright. Not to mention all the stares she got.

The one-winged fledgling was a freak.

Her flock did their best to ward off gawkers, but they couldn’t always be there. Not when cockerels plucked out her feathers when she was at stage door or out near fans. Not when hens made snide remarks when they thought she couldn’t hear them. Not when other birds posted on social media about the flightless keyboardist in Six.

The anger and despair from it all simmered inside of Joan.

After school one day, Joan avoided the other ladies in waiting and the queens. She felt delirious and achy and just wanted to be alone.

Guided by the evening light, Joan stumbled upon a shack tucked in a circle of dense trees. She hadn’t even realized she had wandered into the forest, like she was just asking to have her other wing torn off. From inside of the abandoned building, she heard the rattle of metal and stupidly decided to check it out.

A WingEater. It wasn’t the one who had attacked her, this one was much smaller. Its skin was iridescent green and black, like the color of a blowfly. Big bright blue bug eyes blinked, pointy horns gleamed, big ears twitched, antenna felt around in the air. Unlike the other beast, this one is dressed in some kind of flesh-colored smock. It looks leathery, with smears of red and brown staining the material. Protective metal plates clasped around the limbs and stomach, linking together at the back. It almost looked like armor of sorts.

The icing on the cake, however, were the chains locked around the wrists.

Joan stared for a long time and then laughed harshly.

“Look at this. Trapped. On the ground. Like me.”

She walked up to it, grabbing a sharp rock for a weapon. The WingEater reels back into the corner.

“Your kind ruined my life.” The girl growled lowly. She raised her arm and the rock came down on the chains. “Go do the same thing to someone else. I don’t want to be the only one like this.”

She bashed the rusty chains, yelling and snarling as tears poured down her face. Eventually, they broke apart. Joan stumbled backwards, breathing heavily. The carnivorous monster stared up at her in bewilderment.

“Go!” Joan cried. “Go fuck up another person’s life! It’s all you creatures know how to do!”

The WingEater skitters by and jumped into the air. In the light of the sun’s descent, the feathers of a black-throated grey warbler shined beautifully in the background of twilight.


End file.
